


The Third Room on the Left

by vanillafluffy



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Case Fic, Child Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 04:53:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21112979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: For the prompt, "mulling over a new crime scene". And it got dark, because that's the way this fandom rolls and it's not easy being Malcolm Bright.





	The Third Room on the Left

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cornerofmadness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cornerofmadness/gifts).

There’s a patrol car in front of the brownstone. When Malcolm gets closer, he sees there’s a woman in the backseat, sobbing and talking to the uni nearby. At the foot of the steps leading to the front door is the uni’s partner--junior partner, he reckons, because she’s in her mid-twenties, at a guess, and the officer nodding to the woman in the back of the car has to be pushing forty.

The younger officer’s eyes are glassy. There are trash bins to the right of the steps, and a smell of vomit wafts his way. That would account for the white-around-the-mouth look she has. Either this is her first bloody crime scene, or it’s a bad one.

Gil and JT are waiting in the foyer. Gil’s expression is somber. JT looks like he wants to hit something; his jaw is clenched to hard is face is distorted and his hands are knotted into fists.

“What do we have?” he asks them, not speculating or making light, because they’re clearly disturbed. Based on the woman in the patrol car (thirty-something, casual clothes), he’s inclined to think a crime of passion, maybe she got back from running errands and caught a cheating spouse and the cheatee (if that’s the correct designation).

“Upstairs,” Gil tells him tersely. “Third door on the left.”

He takes his time, collecting impressions. The brownstone is tidy, the furnishings comfortable. Nothing pretentious, no designer labels or upscale trinkets in sight. He climbs to the second floor, past a photo wall where the woman from the patrol car--younger here--smiles in a wedding picture beside a genial young man. Other photos show her beaming from a hospital bed, an infant in her arms. What’s that kid going to do if Mommy goes to jail for killing Daddy?

The first door on the left sports a queen-sized bed. The room is done in neutrals, a Hokusai wave art print above the bed. Very zen. The second door opens to a black and white bathroom with classic hexagonal tiles on the floor. The third door…the bright pop of a colorful mural on the wall warns him.

This is the child’s room. Malcolm’s steps slow as he nears the open door. He forces himself to look.

It’s definitely bad. He’s no stranger to violent death or bloody crime scenes, but the sight of the half-naked child face-down on the striped rug, numerous gouts of blood spatter suggesting that this was not a quick or easy death--Malcolm takes a deep breath and struggles with his objectivity. If he’s going to get justice for this poor little one, his empathy is a liability.

“Edrisa already has pictures,” Gil says from the hallway. “She’s out back. This sicko killed the family’s cat. Mother was out in the backyard cleaning up the mess and getting rid of it. She came in, went to see if the kid wanted lunch and found--this.”

“That means it’s personal, doesn’t it?” JT asks, right behind Gil. “When they kill the pets?” That’s a pretty good question; it’s right out of Profiling 101 and it’s often true.

“It can be,” Malcolm agrees. “In this case, I suspect it was also a diversion. It was a way to distract Mom--she’s not going to want her child to see Fluffy in pieces….” Avoiding the mess in the middle of the floor, he steps over to the window that looks down on the backyard. “Edrisa’s taking pictures of the sandbox--if that’s where the killer left the remains, it was staged for maximum shock value. That, and our boy has a taste for it.” No use putting it off…he approaches the small, still form and handles it far more gently than the killer did. He examines the pattern of wounds, which aren’t random. “The cat was a warm-up act, an appetizer before the main event, so to speak.”

“Jesus, Bright!” JT snaps at him. 

“I don’t like it any more than you do!” he snaps back. “Did you notice the burns over top of the cuts? He was using that curling iron--” He points to the device plugged into an outlet just below a Snoopy nightlight. “--to cauterize the wounds. It didn’t completely stop the bleeding, but it would’ve slowed it down _and_ it would’ve inflicted more pain.”

JT swallows hard, like he wants to hurl. Gil looks much older and terribly, terribly sad. Malcolm sighs. Right now, he hates that he’s good at this.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say that the actual cause of death is going to be asphyxiation.”

“How the hell do you get that?” JT demands. 

“Petechial hemorrhaging. The victim isn’t restrained, which suggests that the killer had no problem immobilized them, but it would take some kind of gag to keep them from screaming loud enough to bring Mom running. I suspect the gag was inhaled and obstructed the airway. Our killer’s playtime was cut short. He was probably angry and disappointed. There’s bruising on the sternum. It looks like he tried to do the Heimlich maneuver when he realized the victim had stopped breathing.” 

Still crouched over the body, Malcolm rocks back on his heels. “In a house like this, there’s probably a basement entrance--have Edrisa check that as an entry point. He lured Mom outside, came upstairs and got busy.

“He was organized enough to pull off a ruse like that, but the curling iron was a tool of opportunity. I’d say he’s in his twenties and has a medical background. Those cuts demonstrate familiarity with the circulatory system. He’s systematically nicked the major veins, but stayed away from the arteries--that was probably going to be the payoff for him.”

He glances over at JT, who’s giving him the ‘Freak!’ look that had been waning recently. Clearly, he’s lost some ground today. 

“I think you’re right about it being personal. There’s no sign of a struggle. I presume Mom didn’t hear anything--but if the victim knew the assailant, if it was someone who didn’t alarm them, the killer could have walked in here and blitz-attacked with no problem. I think that’s what happened.”

“Was it…was it a sex thing?”

Malcolm looks away. “Whether actual penetration occurred or not, yes, it was a sex thing.” He doesn’t go into detail. Although it takes a lot to sicken him, this one comes closer to it than anything has in years. As terrible as the things The Surgeon did were, at least he’d done them to adults. As awful as his own loss of innocence was, it was psychic, not physical pain--and he is still very much alive. He’s had decades more than this child will ever know.

“So,” Gil breaks the silence. “Someone young, familiar to the victim, medical knowledge, probably white?” Malcolm nods. Trans-racial killing is fairly uncommon. “Anything else?”

“If you find any suspects, look for a sealed juvenile record. The animal torture seems to be part of his ritual. It’s probably how he got started. Look for a trophy, probably something like a stuffed animal.” He points to a gap in the menagerie on the bed. “Find out what was there and include it in the search warrant. In addition to an alibi for today, if it takes time to narrow the suspect pool, find out if he’s missed work or class or otherwise broken his routine. He may be staying home and reliving his crime.”

The senior detective snaps a photo of the bed, leaving out the body just feet away. “I’ll go talk to the mother,” Gil says, and heads out the door. His footsteps echo in the stairwell.

“We’ll find him!” JT growls. The ‘I-want-to-hit-someone’ look is back.

Straightening up, Malcolm looks at him. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says quietly. “And I don’t blame you. That poor kid--” He steps past JT into the hall. He can’t stand to be in the same room as that pitiful sight any longer. “I imagine the killer might end up a little banged up from resisting arrest. Hey, karma’s a bitch. And prison would be a whole lot more hell. You know as well as I do that inmates have no love for child killers.”

JT smiles. It looks like a hungry wolf eyeing his lunch’s jugular.

“Just be careful,” Malcolm warns him. “Gil won’t look the other way. And don’t forget about security cameras, traffic cameras and those video doorbells.”

“What about you?” JT’s tone challenges him. “Would you look the other way?”

“Look the other way at what?”

JT relaxes ever so slightly. “Okay then. Let’s go find this son-of-a-bitch.”

They head downstairs and out to the street, where the victim’s mother is loudly protesting that no, it can’t be Tristan, that their former sitter is so sweet, and yes, he is in pre-med at Hudson, but he couldn’t possibly--! 

Well, that didn’t take long. Now to track this guy down and find out what he’s been doing today. 

Malcolm is validated when it turns out Tristan Zelman does indeed have a sealed juvenile record for offences including cruelty to animals and assaulting younger children. It doesn’t surprise him that the suspect was organized enough to get rid of his bloody clothes and spray his sneakers with bleach. He must have thought he was free and clear and felt like celebrating, because he and JT catch him in his dorm room, masturbating with the stuffed giraffe he swiped from his victim. 

Malcolm maintains he has no idea how the suspect wound up with injuries including two black eyes and a broken rib. He never touched the guy, and Detective Tarmel was in his sight the entire time. He certainly would have noticed if there had been any unnecessary roughness. 

Gil isn’t buying it, but says nothing. The victim, his jaw wired, says nothing.

Back at his loft, Malcolm takes his meds and secures himself for the night. It’s been a shitty day. He knows he’s going to have nightmares, and he does.

At least this time, they don’t involve his father.

…


End file.
